Sheikh Noor-ud-Din Wali said: ‘Food will last as long as the forests last.’ By destroying forests for fire festivals, we are ignoring the very patron saint we claim to venerate. If these saints were among us today, they would likely denounce the ‘theatre of faith’ we have constructed.
Dr Rafi Ramzan Dar
In the heart of south Kashmir, the landscape is defined not just by its mountains, but by its deep-seated spiritual moorings. Among these, the legacy of Baba Hyder Reshi (Reshmol) and Sheikh Zain-ud-Din Wali stands tall. Yet, as we observe the annual rituals dedicated to these saints, a troubling question arises: Have we traded the essence of their teachings for the convenience of performance?
The Seven-Day Paradox
In Anantnag, the death anniversary of Reshmol—a luminary of the Reshi order—is marked by a unique collective abstinence. For seven days, devotees shun meat, eggs, onions, and garlic. The logic is rooted in ancient spiritual science: avoiding “hot” or “pungent” foods to curb worldly desires and cultivate Nafs-e-Ammara (the disciplined self).
However, there is a stark irony at play. Reshmol was a lifelong vegetarian, a man whose entire existence was an exercise in compassion and minimalism. If we claim to be his followers, does a one-week dietary restriction compensate for 51 weeks of indulgence? If the goal is spiritual purification, can the soul truly be “cleansed” on a seasonal schedule?
We treat spirituality like a subscription service—renewing our “piety” for a week before returning to the “wild beast” tendencies of the rest of the year. In a society often plagued by nepotism, corruption, and social apathy, this temporary asceticism feels less like a conviction (etiqaad) and more like a perversion of the saint’s lifestyle.
A River Of Fire, A Forest In Ashes
Further down in Aishmuqam, the Zool festival commemorates Sheikh Zain-ud-Din Wali’s victory over evil. It is a visual spectacle; thousands of wooden mashaals (torches) create a “river of fire” that illuminates the valley. But look closer at the embers, and the cost becomes clear.
The wood for these torches comes from our majestic Deodar trees. Every year, thousands of branches are lopped off—the literal lungs of our valley—to be burned in a few hours of ritualistic fervour. We celebrate a victory over a legendary demon while simultaneously feeding the very real demons of deforestation and environmental pollution.
Did the saint, a man who found God in the silence of nature, ever ask for his legacy to be written in smoke and carbon dioxide? To honour a “protector” by destroying the environment that sustains us is not just illogical; it is a betrayal of the Reshi philosophy, which viewed all living beings as part of a divine whole.
The Logic Of The Soul
The Reshi order was never about hollow rituals; it was about a radical transformation of the self. Sheikh Noor-ud-Din Wali (Nund Rishi) famously said, “Ann poshi teli yeli wann poshi” (Food will last as long as the forests last). By destroying our forests for fire festivals, we are ignoring the very patron saint we claim to venerate.
If these saints were among us today, they would likely denounce the “theatre of faith” we have constructed. They would ask us to seek purification not in a weekly diet, but in daily honesty. They would ask us to find light not in burning wood, but in enlightening our minds.
A Call For Change
It is time to give logic and rationality a seat at the table of tradition. We do not need to abandon our culture, but we must refine it. Let our compassion for animals extend beyond seven days. Let our celebration of light be one that doesn’t darken the air we breathe.
As Mahatma Gandhi famously suggested, we must be the change we wish to see. If we want a society that is pure, honest, and sustainable, we cannot wait for a festival to trigger our conscience. True etiqaad isn’t found in a torch or a temporary plate of greens; it is found in the enduring integrity of our daily lives.
The writer is a teacher
ra***********@***il.com